


In Another Life

by angeloscastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeloscastiel/pseuds/angeloscastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having discovered a plot by the Winchesters, Kevin and Castiel to raise an army of fallen angels and take back Heaven, Metatron returns to Earth to stop them in the only way he can - erasing all Sam and Dean's memories and replacing them with false ones. Blissfully unaware of the supernatural, the brothers lead the normal life they always dreamed of, while Castiel, left alone, struggles to find the only family he has left - who have no memory of his existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It has been two months since Castiel fell. Two months of living at the bunker, adjusting to his newfound humanity; of learning to cook and do laundry and drive and sit through _Star Wars_ , of long drives across the country and dingy motels and fast food and drinks at the end of hunts, of deep, heartfelt conversations with Sam as the sun rose on their wearied faces and tense, strained conversations with Dean, unsaid words hanging in the air between them. Castiel has tried talking to Dean, tried to express himself and found the vocabulary of every known language in the world failing him. Around Sam and Kevin Dean is normal, smiling and joking and teasing, but when they are alone Dean never quite meets Castiel’s eyes, stops Castiel before he can say anything with a “Don’t apologise again, man,” or “Don’t worry, we’ll get your grace back,” and Castiel can’t find the words to explain that his grace is _gone_ and Dean doesn’t need to get it back, but he’s afraid of admitting that he doesn’t want to leave, because Dean obviously doesn’t want him to stay.

They are working on translating the angel tablet, and Sam and Dean have been gathering an army – two dozen fallen angels across the country, angels once part of Castiel’s garrison, who stood behind him when he challenged Raphael. They will, Dean promises, storm the gates of Heaven and take it back from Metatron. Castiel throws himself into the work, because it is his fault his brothers and sisters fell and he will lead them home, but he has no intention of returning for good – he cannot explain it, not properly, but he knows that his place is somehow on Earth, not in Heaven.

He strides through the supermarket collecting the week’s groceries, grateful that Sam and Dean have entrusted him with this task. He enjoys shopping, enjoys the opportunity to learn and observe humanity on his own without Sam or Dean hovering over his shoulder like an anxious parent. He is confident in his social skills now, knows when to make eye contact and when to smile and when to make conversation, and when to keep his head down and let his gaze slide across the aisles without seeing anything.

Castiel has never asked where Dean got the car, rather certain he would not like the answer. It is small, a mid-90s Japanese model as Dean explained before he trailed off in disgust, but it is Castiel’s, because Dean would never let him learn to drive the Impala. He likes it – learning to drive it is a welcome distraction from the fact he can no longer fly, crossing the globe in a splitsecond and a ripple of wings. He folds himself into the driver’s seat – he has never thought of his vessel as particularly tall, especially when around Sam – but perhaps he is, and the car is small enough that Sam refuses to ride in it.

The drive back to the bunker is relaxing, and Castiel relishes the solitude. He is not used to cohabitation and, though he loves the Winchesters and the prophet, he finds living in the bunker difficult sometimes. Nevertheless, he is pleased when he arrives back – especially because the store had plenty of Dean’s favourite pie today, and he seems to appreciate small gestures like that from Castiel. He unlocks the bunker door – he did not understand the significance of being given a key when Dean first got it cut for him, he was so used to being able to come and go as he pleased – but now he appreciates the gesture.

Silence greets him as he enters – not a comfortable silence but an oppressive one, and Castiel hurriedly drops the groceries on the floor as his hand goes to the pocket where he keeps his gun. It is far from instinctive – not like the quick flick of the wrist he once used to retrieve his angel blade from his sleeve, but it gives Castiel some comfort to feel the cool metal in his hand.

“They’re gone, Castiel,” a voice tells him – a voice so loathsomely familiar, a voice which taunts him in his nightmares and whose words chill him to his very core. The air suddenly seems thicker, harder to breathe. Castiel forces himself to face the speaker.

“Relax,” Metatron says smoothly, sinking into a chair at the dining table where Sam and Dean had been seated barely an hour previously. “They’re alive. Safe. Sit down.”

“What have you done with them?” Castiel demands, and he brandishes his gun because he has nothing else. Metatron rolls his eyes, and with a bored flick of his hand he sends the gun flying across the room.

“Really, Castiel. A gun? Have you forgotten so much about our kind already?”

“ _What have you done with them?”_ Castiel growls, looming over Metatron with enough venom in his eyes to make up for his lack of grace.

Metatron holds up his hands in mock surrender. “I told you. They’re safe. Now sit down.”

Reluctantly, knowing he has no other option, Castiel sits.

“I heard about your little operation,” Metatron begins conversationally. “Translate the angel tablet. Raise an army. Take back Heaven. I can’t let you do that.”

“ _What. Have. You. Done?”_

“I’ve done some reading since I met your boys,” Metatron continues, ignoring Castiel’s question. “The prophet Chuck. Great stories, fascinating. Bit concerning, what those boys are capable of when they’re working together. Working with you, especially.”

“You have used the last of my patience, Metatron.”

“Like I used the last of your grace. Thank you for that, by the way. It had to be you. You know why, of course.”

Castiel does not answer.

“I just removed them from the game, that’s all. Erased their memories. Put in new ones. Normal lives, now. No more raising armies of fallen angels. No more _you_.”

“I will find them,” Castiel says steadily.

Metatron laughs. “Good luck. They’re not the _Winchesters_ anymore. You’ll never find them. And even if you do – well. They’re not going to remember you. So I suggest you get on with what I told you to – find yourself a wife, have some kids. Live a normal human life. I’ll see you again in – let’s see – fifty years or so?”

With a ripple of feathers, Metatron is gone and Castiel is left, feeling more empty than he ever has in his millenia of existence.


	2. Chapter 2

It is late at night, and raining, when Castiel hammers on a nondescript apartment door in Michigan. He knows it is bad etiquette to knock on anyone’s door at three in the morning, let alone someone you’ve only met twice, but Castiel is desperate and out of options.

The door is yanked open by a bleary-eyed young woman, red hair mussed from sleep. “Castiel?” she murmurs confusedly.

“Charlie,” Castiel returns in a clipped voice. “I need help. Sam and Dean are missing.”

“What?” Charlie asks, startled and immediately awake. “What happened? What do you mean _missing_?”

“Metatron.”

“The douchebag angel? What happened to them, Cas? Tell me!”

“He removed their memories,” Castiel says, and his whole body seems to sag in defeat. “Replaced them with false ones.”

“Like Zachariah?”

“Yes. Exactly. I don’t know where he put them, but he said it would be impossible to find them.”

“Nobody’s impossible to find,” Charlie says decisively. “I’ll find them. We’ll find them, okay, Cas?” She looks at him worriedly. “Cas? You hear me?”

“They won’t remember us,” Castiel says quietly, and he feels hot tears pricking at his eyes – the sensation of crying is still alien to him, and he hates the thought that his emotions are so obvious, so visible – but Charlie doesn’t seem to care, just pulls him into an awkward hug. When she speaks, her voice is choked up.

“They will – right? When we find them. When Zachariah did it – Dean remembered. He’ll remember us. He has to.”

“I wouldn’t hold up much hope. Metatron would have been thorough.”

To his surprise, Charlie hits him. “Would it kill you to lie?” she demands, looking angry for barely a moment before her face crumples. “Just lie. Say we’ll find them, and they’ll remember everything and—” She cuts herself off, turning abruptly. “You drink coffee?”

“Of course.” Castiel follows her into the kitchen.

Charlie seems on the verge of tears all night, but after she brews the coffee she sits down at the table and resolutely opens her laptop, fingers flying across the keys. “Okay. So we’re gonna go ahead and assume they’re still under the names Dean and Sam, yeah?”

“Yes. They are more likely to believe the big lie if most of the details are correct.”

“True.”

“Like you,” Castiel says unexpectedly. “You’ve had a number of aliases. You prefer Charlie because your real name is Charlotte.”

“How did you – ” Charlie swivels in her chair, fixing Castiel with an accusatory look which drops only seconds later. “Oh, right. Angel. All-knowing, right?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“And they’ll be brothers?” Charlie asks.

“Yes. Same birthdays, I would expect.”

“Okay. They won’t be the Winchesters, of course, but the name would have to be familiar to them.” She turns to Castiel. “Throw some names at me.”

“Singer,” Castiel suggests. “Campbell. Harvelle. Braeden. Moore. Richardson. Mills. Bradbury.”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “Bradbury? Really?”

“You are close to them,” Castiel points out.

“All right,” Charlie shrugs. “Okay. I can keep an eye out for them.”

 

* * *

 

Two days later Charlie comes home from work and sits Castiel down.

“This stuff could take months,” she begins, nodding at her laptop. “Finding them, I mean. I’ve talked to Garth – the hunter? – and he’s got all the hunters in the country keeping an eye out for them, says he’ll call if anyone sees them – but it isn’t going to happen overnight.”

“That’s okay. I’m patient.”

“Yeah, that’s not the point, Cas. I meant how long are you going to be staying here?” she pauses awkwardly. “I mean, I don’t mind, but it is only a one-bedroom and my landlord thinks it’s just me here—”

“I don’t mind the couch. I don’t sleep much.”

That bit, at least, is true – Castiel does not go to bed, staying up all night on Charlie’s laptop (Charlie has taught him the basics of searching for people, hacking company databases and such, and Castiel is a quick enough learner that he has taken over the search almost entirely within two days) and sleeps only when the need _overcomes_ him, keeling over on the couch or slumping over the kitchen table with his head cradles in his arms. He sleeps barely long enough to stave off debilitating exhaustion, and only eats when Charlie forces him. If he was anything but a fallen angel, Charlie would say he was depressed, bereaved – but finding Dean has become Castiel’s sole purpose and he is wholly absorbed in the task, simply _forgetting_ that he has human needs now. Charlie would like her apartment back, but Castiel living by himself doesn’t bode well.

“Cas, if we’re gonna do this, we have to find something that works long-term. And you staying on my couch is not long-term.”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

“We could go back to the bunker,” Charlie shrugs. “I could probably get a transfer to Kansas – and if I can’t, well. I have savings, and I won’t be paying rent anywhere.”

Castiel frowns. “Should I get a job, Charlie?”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “What the hell kinda job would _you_ do?” It comes out ruder than she intended, but considering she’s babysitting her missing best friend’s fallen angel she figures she can cut herself some slack.

“I have a vast knowledge base. Most of that knowledge is – unsuitable to practical application. I thought perhaps academia would suit me.”

Charlie nods. “Huh. Yeah. I could see that. But you have to have a PhD for that and that takes years—”

“You could forge one, coulddn’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but you need to have written stuff as well – theses, articles, books – and you can’t forge those.”

“I can write a thesis,” Castiel says decisively. “Articles too. I’ll tell the universities I apply to that I’m currently working on a book.”

“Cas, that’s still going to take ages—”

“I assure you it won’t.”

Charlie feels vaguely _wrong_ about forging Castiel’s qualifications – a driver’s licence or a birth certificate is one thing, but a doctorate takes years and years of study and thousands of dollars – but then she figures he’s an _angel_ and he’s thousands of years old and if anyone’s qualified to be a professor of theology – Castiel’s chosen subject – it’s him. They move back into the bunker, Charlie finding someone to sublet to until the lease on her apartment runs out.

“You need a last name, Cas,” she tells him as she works.

“Winchester,” Castiel replies without hesitation.

“Castiel Winchester,” Charlie repeats to herself. “Has a nice ring. How’s your thesis going?”

“Twenty thousand words.”

Charlie blinks. “Cas, you started _yesterday_.”

“I’m an angel,” he says impatiently. “I may not have the same abilities, but I still have my celestial intellect.”

“And a celestial ego,” Charlie mutters. Castiel glares at her, but says nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes another six weeks before their searches turn up anything – six weeks in which Castiel has finished his thesis and a couple of articles, and is halfway through writing a book. The thesis is on “the accidental accuracy of the Carver Edlund ‘Supernatural’ series with regard to the apocalypse of Revelations,” which Charlie finds funnier than she cares to admit.

“Cas!” she yells across the bunker. “Cas, I think I found something. A university in Connecticut just hired two new members of staff – Dean and Samuel Campbell.”

“That’s them,” Castiel says immediately.

“And – hold on – one of their theology professors is retiring – they’re looking for a replacement.” Charlie frowns. “It’s almost as if Metatron knows – what if this is a trap?”

“Metatron would never have wanted me to find them,” Castiel replies. “I may still have friends in Heaven.”

“I thought all the angels fell.”

“They did. There are other beings in Heaven besides angels. I suspect Fate.”

“Fate? Like, destiny?”

“No. Atropos. She and I are not on the best of terms, but it is possible she wants Metatron out of power and is willing to help our cause.”

Charlie raises her eyebrows. “Fate’s giving you a job?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

* * *

 

There must be some divine intervention going on somewhere though, because Charlie gets an IT job at the same university, and Castiel is hired as the new theology professor. Charlie has Garth on standby as Castiel’s reference, but apparently the department is so impressed with Castiel’s thesis that they don’t even bother to check. Castiel at least has the decency to look sheepish when reporting this to Charlie, but Charlie just rolls her eyes.

They find an apartment close to campus. It’s been years since Charlie had a proper roommate, and while she’s been living in the bunker with Castiel for several weeks they’ve never bothered to set up a routine. Now, however, Charlie feels the need to set some ground rules.

“One,” Charlie begins. “You go to bed. Every night. I will impose a bedtime on you. You sleep like a normal human being. Two, you learn to cook. We cook alternate nights. Three, you shower every morning. Four, Thursday nights are movie and pizza nights. Five, if I have _someone over,_ you leave for the evening.”

“A man?”

Charlie huffs. “I’m gay, Cas.”

“Oh. A woman?”

“Yeah. And – uh – same policy for you, by the way.”

“I won’t be having anyone over.”

“Are you in love with Dean?” Charlie asks bluntly.

Castiel tenses automatically, preparing for flight before remembering he doesn’t have his wings anymore, and sags defeatedly. “Is this a necessary conversation?”

“For what it’s worth, I think he loves you too.”

“He doesn’t anymore,” Castiel points out.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the key. Maybe he’ll see you and remember everything. Love conquers all, and all that bullshit.”

“Maybe,” Castiel echoes, but his voice is practically dripping with doubt.

 

* * *

 

It is three weeks before Castiel even sees Dean on campus, and it’s like his blood has run cold. He is uncomfortably aware of the beating of his own heart – so loud when he first fell, he has learned to ignore the sound until now.

Dean is in the staff café, seated alone by the window with a folder in front of him, and he hasn’t noticed Castiel staring. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves – an unfamiliar solution for an unfamiliar sensation, but it seems to work in any case – Castiel crosses the room and hovers beside the empty chair at Dean’s table.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” he asks, the pleasantries sounding odd rolling off his tongue, requiring too much thought. “Sorry, the place is a bit full.”

“No, go ahead,” Dean responds, glancing up at Castiel and smiling.

Castiel mirrors his smile, refusing to let the sudden anguish that threatens to overwhelm him show. That smile is polite, friendly, and nothing like any smile Dean has ever given Castiel before.

“I’m Dean Campbell,” he says, offering a hand, and Castiel fights the urge to say _no, you’re not_ and shakes his hand instead.

“Castiel Winchester,” he says, and he can’t decide if the combination sounds incredibly wrong or incredibly right.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Haven’t heard that name before.”

“I’m new here. Started three weeks ago.”

“No kidding, I’m pretty new as well. Only been here a couple o’months. What do you teach, anyway?”

“Theology. You?”

“Civil engineering.” Dean laughs. “Couldn’t get much more different, could you?”

“I guess not. Where were you before this?”

Dean shrugs. “All over the place. I don’t settle down much, you know? And I could only get short-term teaching jobs. This is my first fixed position since I got my doctorate. What about you, where were you?”

“Kansas.”

Dean nods. “I was born there. Lawrence.”

“I know it. It’s a nice town.”

“Yeah, it is.” Dean takes a long gulp of his coffee. “Ohh. Thank God it’s Friday. I still have a class to teach later this afternoon. Freshmen, physics and five pm don’t go well together.”

“I have the opposite problem. Biblical philosophy at eight on Monday mornings.”

Dean winces, laughs. “So what’s the deal with theology anyway? You religious?”

“I know too much to have faith in anything.”

“Fair enough, man. I’m not big on the God thing either.” Dean pauses. “I like the idea of angels though, you know?”

Castiel stares at Dean, hope rising inside him, waiting for a spark of recognition, but Dean looks away and says, “I think it’s coz my mom used to tell me angels were watching over me, back when I was little. It’s a nice idea. Probably not true, but nice.”

“Biblical angels are far from nice.” _They are broken,corrupt or lost._ I _am broken, corrupt and lost._

There must have been some vehemence to his voice, because Dean blinks. “What’d they ever do to you?” he jokes, and it pains Castiel, pains him because what _haven’t_ his brothers done to him, what _haven’t_ they taken from him, and it pains him because Dean doesn’t know what he’s said.

“I wrote my thesis on them,” Castiel says, which is a half-truth but a truth nonetheless. “Sick of those sons of bitches.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it. I still cringe every time I have to teach something that was in my thesis.”

They sit in the café until Dean leaves to teach his class, Castiel spending the entire afternoon thinking he should leave, he should get home and let his emotions get the best of him – but leaving Dean after two months without him is impossible. It is agony, seeing Dean’s gaze slide over his features without a glimmer of recognition, hearing him recount falsified memories and ask Castiel the most basic questions – but at the same time it is _Dean,_ the same Dean who he pulled out of Hell five years ago, the same Dean whom he has lived and fought and died beside, the same shining soul, and Castiel can put aside his pain, even momentarily, to bask in the warmth that exudes from Dean.

Dean is apologetic when he leaves, tells Castiel it’s been great getting to know him and they should meet up again – “newbies gotta stick together, right?” and shakes Castiel’s hand, and then he’s gone, striding out of the café without a backwards glance, and Castiel feels empty.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Castiel wakes up at some unknown hour on the couch of his apartment to Charlie glaring daggers at him.

“Evening, _Dr Winchester_.”

“Charlie.” His voice is rougher than usual, he feels nauseous and the bright light hurts his eyes.

“So you found Dean.”

“That’s right.” He groans a little, but Charlie is unsympathetic.

“He didn’t remember you.”

“No.”

“So you came home and drank till you passed out.”

“It seemed like the appropriate course of action.” Pause. “My alcohol tolerance is not what it used to be.”

“Yeah. This isn’t becoming a thing. This isn’t becoming your way to cope. All right?” Charlie strides over to the kitchen bench, unscrewing the tops of several liquor bottles and pouring them down the sink. “You’re not turning into a train wreck on my watch.”

“I hardly think one incident justifies—”

“Well, I’m nipping it in the bud, then.”

Castiel glares at her. She shrugs, unrepentant, and places a bucket on the couch next to him. “If you puke anywhere but in that bucket, I am _not_ cleaning it up.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel sees Dean on campus occasionally throughout the next week, and each time he does it rattles him. He wants Dean to notice him, talk to him, but at the same time their interactions are frought with pain. On Friday, Dean is back in the café. He waves a greeting to Castiel, moving the paper he’s reading over in a clear invitation to join him.

They talk for another three hours, until Dean has to teach his class, but as he’s leaving he turns back to Castiel. “Hey, listen. Me ’n my brother are going to the campus bar tonight for a few drinks if you wanna join us?”

“The campus bar?” Castiel repeats, smiling. “Aren’t you worried you might run into your students there?”

“Nah.” Dean chuckles. “I set them a test tomorrow morning. Forty percent of the grade. They won’t be out tonight. What about yours?”

“This may shock you, but theology students aren’t the types to frequent bars.”

“I’ll see you there then?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

On the way home that afternoon, Castiel allows himself a smile.

 

* * *

 

Castiel and Charlie arrive at the campus bar shortly after eight, and a quick glance around tells them Dean isn’t here yet. Charlie drums her fingers against her glass anxiously.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have come,” she says in a rush. “I mean, it’s not like he’s gonna recognise me, and it’s a bit too weird and I could be at home watching Game of Thrones…”

Castiel shoots her a glare that silences her immediately, glancing towards the door again.

Dean chooses that moment to walk into the bar, Sam in tow, and they look so familiar in jeans and plaid that Castiel momentarily forgets everything that’s happened, momentarily thinks they’re out celebrating a successful hunt, until Dean approaches them and says, “Hey, Cas. You don’t mind if I call you Cas, do you?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Cas, this is my brother Sam. Sammy, this is Castiel Winchester, he teaches theology.”

“Hi.” Sam holds out a giant hand to Castiel, who is suddenly reminded of the first time they met. Feeling almost as though he is righting the wrongs of five years ago, Castiel grasps Sam’s hand in a firm handshake.

“It’s good to meet you, Sam.”

“You too.” Sam spots Charlie lurking beside Castiel, leaning over to shake her hand. “Hi, I’m Sam.”

“Charlie,” she returns. “I’m Castiel’s roommate.”

“Do you work here?” Sam asks her.

“Yeah – in IT, though. Not a professor or anything,” she says hurriedly. “You?”

“Um, yeah, I teach Classics.”

As Sam and Charlie are absorbed into conversation, Castiel shuffles closer to Dean in order to hear him over the crowd.

“Didn’t know you had a roommate,” Dean says.

“She’s a good friend.”

“So you’re not…?”

Castiel furrows his brow in confusion. “We’re not?”

“You know. Together or anything?”

“No, no. She’s gay.”

Dean nods, takes a swig of his beer.

“Why do you ask?” Castiel continues.

“Just curious.” Dean turns to him. “You know, man, it’s weird. I barely know you, but I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

Castiel regards him carefully. “Likewise,” he says at length.

A brief but not uncomfortable silence falls between them.

“What sort of a name is Castiel anyway? No offence or anythin’.”

“None taken. Castiel is the name of the angel of Thursdays. It means shield of God.”

“Religious parents?”

“Very.”

“Got any siblings?”

“A few. Anael, Uriel, Balthazar.” Pause. “Naomi.”

“All named after angels?”

“Yes. Sam’s your only sibling?”

Dean is suddenly quiet. “We had a half brother.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” And he is sorry, sorry that Metatron saw fit to leave Dean’s memories of Adam intact.

“’S okay. We barely knew him, me’n Sam. He was already – gone by the time we found out about him.”

Castiel wants to know how much Dean remembers, but this is not the time or the place to be asking about Adam. “How did you get into engineering?”

“Dunno.” Dean takes another swig of his beer. “I was gonna be a mechanic, growing up. That’s what Dad did. Sammy was always the smart one. But my uncle Bobby told me I should go to college, that i had a decent mind. Decided to give engineering a go. Guess I never looked back.”

“It’s a big leap,” Castiel says. “From mechanic to professor of civil engineering.”

“Guess anything’s possible. What about you?”

“It’s something of a fall from grace, really.” Castiel chooses his words carefully, hoping that Dean will pick up on their double meaning – that something will jog his memory of the angel sitting beside him. “I was…destined for ministry. I lost faith. Made mistakes.” Pause. “Fell for a righteous man.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Sounds messy.”

“You could say that, yes.”

Sam chooses this point to include them into his and Charlie’s conversation and they spend the rest of the evening discussing trivialities – TV shows Castiel hasn’t seen and celebrities he hasn’t heard of and people he hasn’t met. It bores him, exhausts him even, but Dean and Sam look incredibly happy as they laugh and joke with Charlie – free from the memories that once haunted them – and he is struck with a sudden desire to leave them be, give them the life they always wanted. Perhaps Metatron has unknowingly blessed them, and who is Castiel to try and take that away?

 

* * *

 

It is Charlie who convinces Castiel not to pack up and leave for the bunker that night.

“Course they’re happier without those memories of monsters and demons and Hell,” she says impatiently. “Did you expect them to be lost without hunting? Cas. You came here because you needed to find them, but you’ve found them. You knew they weren’t gonna remember you, so why did you come?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you love Dean, you _idiot.”_

“Then what is my purpose?” Castiel demands. “What am I doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie says frustratedly. “Take a philosophy class.”

“I already teach a philosophy class.”

“Win him over, then,” Charlie says, rolling her eyes and flopping onto the couch. “Watch a few bad romance movies and try out some moves.”

“I don’t have any ‘ _moves.’_ And even if I did, my value to Dean was inherently linked to my being an angel. I am of no use to him now, and he has no memory of when I was.”

“We’re back to this? Cas, we talked about this.”

“You talked,” Castiel corrects. “And you failed to understand what I am trying to tell you.”

Charlie lets out a noise that’s halfway between a groan and a scream, shoving her face into a cushion. “You are _oblivious.”_

“My knowledge eclipses all that has been or ever will be held by mankind,” Castiel says in a clipped voice.

“ _Dude_.”


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel and Dean turn Friday afternoon coffee into a routine unconsciously, Dean always seated in the same chair by the window and waving to Castiel as soon as he enters. They don’t have a set time – sometimes Castiel comes before lunch, sometimes not until one or two if he has department meetings or an appointment with a student, but Dean is always there waiting for him, and they always stay until Dean leaves to teach his class. Castiel looks forward to these Fridays all week, and talking to Dean is slowly becoming easier as Castiel becomes convinced of his own lies, no longer has to mentally double check a fact or obscure detail in case it contradicts something he’s already said. He’s constructed an entire life story in his head, thirty-seven years of human existence that is a strange mix of his own and Jimmy Novak’s memories. He does not sanitise his family history – never knew his mother, father missing, three of his named siblings dead and Naomi’s fate unknown. Dean can almost match him tragedy for tragedy, and it is not until Castiel sees himself through the eyes of a human that he sees how much he and Dean have in common.

Charlie invites Dean and Sam to come with her to see Star Trek: Into Darkness, and drags Castiel along with them. The movies that Dean and Charlie favour have little appeal for Castiel and he tries to excuse himself, citing the pile of essays that have just come in from his biblical philosophy class, but Charlie is having none of it. After the movie they all return to his and Charlie’s apartment for drinks and pizza. Castiel, once again, attempts to retreat to his room for grading until Dean reaches out, grabs him by the wrist and forces him onto the couch beside him.

“No grading,” he says firmly, and Castiel is too taken aback by the contact to protest.

“ _Mei frater te pedicare cupit_ ,” Sam says in a singsong voice.

“ _Vero_?” Castiel asks quietly, and Sam spins around in his chair, looking startled.

“I’m a theologian, Sam, I speak Latin.”

Sam goes bright red. “Er.”

“How about you two speak in a living language like normal people,” Dean suggests.

“ _ούδεποτε_ ,” Castiel answers, and Sam turns to grin at him.

Castiel tries not to dwell on Sam’s comment – it was obviously meant in jest, using such vulgar language – but he can’t help wondering if there was any truth to it. Not that it matters.

* * *

 

 

Dean and Sam only live a few blocks away, but they decide at about 1am, after a few drinks, that they’re both going to crash at Cas and Charlie’s. With this agreed, Sam and Charlie disappear into the garage to find spare bedding in what Castiel immediately recognises as an obviously engineered move to get him and Dean alone.

“What were you and Sam nattering on about?” Dean asks, because Sam and Cas had been making offhand comments to each other in Greek and Latin all evening.

“Mostly nonsense,” Castiel replies.

“How many languages do you speak?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “All of them.”

Dean laughs. “Come on.”

“I’m serious. Every language in the world.”

“Prove it, then.” Dean leans back in his chair and smirks.

Castiel shrugs and begins talking about the past five years with Dean, their _profound bond_ , Hell, Purgatory, the Apocalypse, the Leviathan, how Dean’s the righteous man – everything he can possibly think of to include – switching languages every sentence. Dean listens to him speak, eyes widening in surprise as Castiel switches effortlessly into his fifth language. Twelve languages in, Dean’s mouth is hanging open.

“Okay, I get it.” He stares at Castiel with an intensity that takes him slightly aback. “Dude. That was…”

“Impressive?” Castiel suggests, smiling.

“I was gonna say hot.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “That was only twelve of them.”

The silence between them now is somehow much thicker, heavier than any previous silence, and Castiel wonders, again, how the human heart can cope with beating so fast – it surely wasn’t designed to work this way, given that his palms are suddenly sweaty and he can feel the pulsating in his chest –

“Hey guys,” Sam says as he re-enters the room with Charlie in tow, dumping an armload of bedding onto the floor. “Dean, you ready to call it a night?”

“Um, yeah,” Dean says, a little too quickly. “Yeah, we better get some sleep. See you guys in the morning.”

* * *

 

 

Dean and Sam leave early the next morning, both grudgingly admitting they have lessons to prepare and essays to grade.

“We should do this again sometime,” Sam says earnestly. “Also, Cas – I’m working on a translation of the _Symposium_  at the moment, would you be interested in looking over it for me? The rest of my department is insanely busy right now—”

“I would be happy to. Shall I come by your office sometime?”

“Yeah, Wednesday afternoon?”

“See you then,” Castiel confirms.

* * *

 

 

Castiel remembers his appointment with Sam just as he finishes his lunch on Wednesday and heads up to the Classics department, knocking on the door that reads DR SAMUEL CAMPBELL. A muffled shout that sounds like “Come in,” comes from within, and Castiel pushes open the door to see Dean at Sam’s desk, feet propped up on a Liddell and Scott Greek lexicon and dropping sandwich crumbs unconcernedly onto Sam’s keyboard.

“Sam’s gone to get a coffee,” Dean explains, swinging his feet back onto the floor and finishing his mouthful. “Should be back in ten or so.”

“Do you spend much time here?”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugs. “His office is bigger than mine. Nice windows.” He waves at them. “Engineering’s down in the basement. ’S not hard to pretend you belong up here either. Just act like you’re better than everyone else.”

Castiel chuckles. “There is considerable rivalry between the Classics and Theology departments. Particularly over the mastery of Greek. New Testament Greek, to the Classicists, is basic and unartistic. However, we win on the matter of cultural influence.”

“Don’t let Sammy hear you say that.”

“I take no side in the argument. It is impossible to quantify the influence any event, idea or work of art has on humanity, not even if you lived a thousand years.”

 Dean nods to himself. “’Spose that’s one way to avoid the argument.”

“I don’t like conflict,” Castiel says matter-of-factly.

“Why do I feel like you’ve told me that before?”

Castiel blinks, looks up at Dean, but no further realisation crosses his face and Castiel shrugs. “Perhaps I have mentioned it.”

Dean is watching Castiel as intently as Castiel had watched him a moment ago, and after a few seconds of silence he clears his throat. “Hey, Cas. What are you doing tonight?”

“I don’t have any plans.”

“Do you wanna—”

Dean never finishes his sentence because Sam bustles in at that very moment, coffee cup in hand. “Cas, hey, sorry to keep you waiting – Dean, what are you – did you get crumbs on my keyboard _again?_ Dude! This isn’t even _mine_ , it belongs to the school!”

“Then I don’t see why you’re worried,” Dean replies with an easy grin. “I’m gonna leave you guys to your…nerd stuff, okay?”

“Dean. You have a doctorate, you can’t call me a nerd.”

“I have a doctorate in a _practical_ subject,” Dean says, pointing a stern finger at his brother. “Which still makes you the nerd. Cas – uh, see you Friday afternoon, yeah?”

Castiel wants to bring up tonight again, but Dean seems to have changed his mind (or doesn’t want to discuss it in front of Sam – Castiel wonders at the implications of that) so he has no option but to nod. “Friday.”

Dean disappears out the door, and Sam sets his coffee down and bounds over to his desk. “Okay, I was just having a bit of trouble with this passage from Pausanias’s speech—”

They work on the passage in question for a couple of hours – Sam is impressed with Castiel’s grasp of Greek, and as they discuss in depth the wording of Pausanias’s argument, Sam suddenly blurts, “Cas, are you gay?”

The question takes him by surprise – though considering they’ve spent the last ninety minutes deconstructing a speech about the merits of homosexual relationships, it perhaps shouldn’t have.

“I don’t know,” Castiel replies, shrugging. “I find gender to be…irrelevant. Why do you ask?’

“I was, uh, just curious.”

“Is this about Dean?”

Sam regards him for a long moment. “Should it be?”

“Yes.”

Sam nods. “Cas, look, I’m sorry about what I said the other night – it was way out of line, it was—”

“Funny for you, and flattering for me,” Castiel finishes. “It’s fine, Sam. really.”

“Good. Uh, thanks.”

“Was there any truth to your comment?” Castiel asks.

“Uh. He hasn’t said anything to me, but yeah, I guess? Seems that way.” Sam fidgets with his pen. “Well, I think we’re about done here – thanks again, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Castiel replies and returns to his office, his mind awash with questions and possibilities.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Mei frater te pedicare cupit - my brother wants to fuck you in the ass  
> vero? - really?  
> ούδεποτε - never


	6. Chapter 6

“Thank God it’s Friday,” Dean says by way of greeting as Castiel joins him in the café. “What a week.”

It’s the last Friday before break and Castiel’s two classes today have been virtually empty – half of his eight Hebrew students have already gone home or are otherwise travelling for the break, and given that his Introduction to Theology students have an essay due at 5pm, most of them were in the library at eleven this morning rather than in class. There were few enough that Castiel was able to hand out chocolate to anyone who actually showed up.

“Got much planned for the break?” Castiel asks.

Dean stretches luxuriously in his chair. “I’m gonna get up late every morning, and have bacon and eggs for breakfast, and take my baby for a drive.”

“The 1967 Chevrolet Impala?”

Dean’s face lights up as he grins. “That’s my baby. You remembered?”

“She’s your pride and joy, you’ve mentioned her several times.”

This is not, strictly speaking, true – Dean has made an offhand comment about owning an Impala once since his memories were wiped, but never specified the year – and with a quiet fondness that Castiel only noticed because he _knows_ Dean. But Dean’s smile does not abate.

“Yeah, guess I have. You seen her?”

“We haven’t been formally introduced.”

“Well, we gotta fix that,” Dean decides. “How about you meet me in the parking lot after my class? We can go grab some burgers and a few drinks next town over to celebrate the end of term – hopefully avoid our students.”

“That sounds excellent,” Castiel says sincerely, and he marvels at how little Dean has changed, even without his memories, even sitting here in the staff café of a New England university with a collared shirt and a PhD in civil engineering under a name that is not his own – even though everything should be different, Dean is somehow a constant.

 

* * *

 

Castiel passes the hour that Dean is teaching his class by going to his department office and collecting the Theology 101 essays, meeting two frazzled-looking students on his way back down the stairs who are bolting up them and stop when they see him.

“Professor – ” the girl begins desperately, “I’m sorry, we didn’t meet the deadline—”

“But we’re only ten minutes late and the printers in the library were all busy—” the boy continues,

“And we had them done before five, didn’t we, Dylan, it was quarter to but there were heaps of people waiting for the printer—”

“Professor, is there any way you could accept these now? It won’t happen again—”

“Please, sir.”

Castiel sighs, fixes them with a stern look. “You’ve known about this paper for weeks. You should not have been working until the last minute.”

“We know, but—”

“However,” Castiel continues, cutting them off, “It is only ten minutes. Hand them over. Don’t let it happen again.”

“We won’t,” they say hurriedly, adding their papers to the pile Castiel is carrying. “Um, do you need help carrying those?”

Castiel eyes them suspiciously. “Are you trying to get into my ‘good books’ after handing in late essays?”

“Um, no?”

“See you after the break,” Castiel says firmly.

 

* * *

 

Castiel lingers beside the Impala, fingers idly brushing the passenger door, for five minutes before Dean appears, walking briskly towards him and shrugging on a jacket. He’s undone the buttons on his shirt, revealing a plain dark green tshirt underneath. He looks indistinguishable from the hunter he used to be, and Castiel almost expects to see the arsenal of guns, knives and holy water when Dean opens the Impala’s trunk and dumps his laptop inside.

“Cas, this is Baby. Baby, this is Cas.”

“She’s a beautiful car,” Castiel says. He’s never really understood Dean’s attachment to his car, finds travelling in them frustrating at best and painful at worst, reminding him of the wings he’s lost – but now his words are sincere because the car is part of _Dean_ , is the closest Dean had to a home for thirty years, and if Dean loves the Impala then Castiel does too.

Dean grins – a compliment to the Impala is a compliment to him, and climbs into the driver’s seat. “Come on. Let’s get out of this place.”

They drive for about forty minutes, chatting easily about academic life until Dean goes quiet for a moment, glancing quickly over at Castiel before fixing his eyes back on the road.

“I dunno, man. Don’t you ever wonder what it’s _for_?”

“Are we still talking about academia, or the purpose of human life in general?”

“Academia. I mean, I know I should be proud, y’know, getting through college and getting my doctorate and doing research, but it doesn’t feel like I’m helping anybody. To be honest, most o’ the time I feel like I’m this close to handing in my notice at the end of the semester.”

“What would you do instead?”

Dean shrugs. “Maybe just teach physics at high school or something, I dunno. It’s a step down, but maybe I can make a difference in some kid’s life, you know? Sammy’s always going on about this one English teacher he had who set him on the college path, made him think he could do somethin’ that wasn’t following in Dad’s footsteps. And look at him now.”

“You never stop, do you?” Castiel asks softly, momentarily forgetting himself. “You never stop wanting to help people.”

Dean frowns, confused, but says nothing in response.

 

* * *

 

After a meal of burgers and fries at a pleasant little diner where the waitress calls them “you boys” and winks when Dean pays for both of them, they cross the street to a bar noisy with Friday night revelry but thankfully free of students who might recognise them and whisper amongst themselves, “Oh my god it’s so _weird_ to see professors outside of class, you know?” This has happened to Castiel at least three times since he began teaching, usually in the supermarket.

They find a table and order a jug of beer between them, Dean telling Castiel how Sam’s been raving about his translation help for “that thing by Plato about the gay dudes at a party,” and asking how the hell he had the time to learn fifteen different languages or whatever in thirtysomething years when Dean’s only managed one and a half.

“More than fifteen.”

“Right, yeah,” Dean says, laughing. “All the languages in the world, I forgot.”

“And Enochian.”

“Enowhat?”

“Enochian. It’s the language of Heaven.”

“I knew that.” Dean frowns. “No, wait. I _did_ know that. How the hell did I know that?”

Dean seems rattled for the rest of the evening, and Castiel has to fight a rising sense of panic – how close is Dean to remembering everything that has happened to him, to being that bitter, self-loathing and haunted man he was? How close is Dean to remembering Castiel and the countless times he let Dean down?

“Do you ever just feel like you’ve forgotten something important?” Dean asks as they return to the Impala.

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Yeah, neither do I.”

“Dean.”

Dean glances over at Castiel. “I dunno, man. I just feel like there’s something I’m missing, you know?”

_Demons. Monsters. Vengeful spirits. Angels._ “What would you be missing?”

“I dunno. Forget about it.”

“I had amnesia once,” Castiel says, breaking the ensuing silence.

“Yeah?”

“I woke up in a river with no recollection of who I was. Completely naked. Miles from anywhere. A local woman found me, took me in, looked after me. Gave me a different name. We were married, for a while.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “You were married?”

“Yes. Briefly.”

“Was this before or after the… _righteous man_?”

“Both. He found me, jogged my memory. Reminded me of who I was.”

“So what happened with you and him? Did you…”

“No.”

“Right. And now…”

“I lost him. I believe he’s…forgotten about me now.”

“How could anyone forget you?”

“I am not a memorable man, Dean.” _I may have been a memorable angel. Perhaps more infamous than memorable._

“You’re memorable enough,” Dean says, and this time his eyes don’t even flicker across to Castiel but remain resolutely trained on the road.

“Thank you,” Castiel responds, and silence falls in the Impala for the rest of the ride back to campus.

 

* * *

 

Dean pulls up next to Castiel’s car in the campus parking lot – Castiel had been tempted to invite Dean over, or maybe suggest seeing Dean’s apartment, but he has a pile of essays in the backseat of his car that need to be taken home, and he doesn’t trust the students in the dorms –whose drunken yells he can already hear – not to smash a bottle on the roof or try and break in.

“This yours?” Dean asks, gesturing to Castiel’s car as they climb out of the Impala. “No offence, man, but that is a truly awful car.”

“I know.”

“You could leave it here,” Dean suggests, walking around the car and inspecting it. “With any luck, some students will smash a beer bottle through the window or take it for a joyride.”

“I don’t understand your definition of good fortune.”

“Buy a new car with the insurance payout. You couldn’t do any worse than this, anyway.”

“I find its… _crappiness_ oddly endearing.”

“It still needs to die at the hands of drunken freshmen.”

“You’re not going to let me drive away from here, are you?”

Dean grins. “No, I’m not. Get your stuff out. Twenty bucks says it won’t last the night.”

“This is stupid,” Castiel mutters to himself as he retrieves the pile of essays and a pile of books from the backseat and transfers them to the Impala, sliding back into his seat beside Dean.

“You should come round for a bit,” Dean says as the engine roars into life. “See my apartment.”

“It seems I have little choice in the matter. You’re driving. I’m at your mercy.”

“Are you now.”

“Does Sam live with you?” Castiel asks.

“No. I have my own place, because that’s what grownups have. Their own place. Not roommates.”

“Charlie is—”

“A good friend, yeah. With a crappy job, I get it.” Dean pauses. “Nah man, Charlie’s cool.”

Dean’s apartment is small and clean, with a bookshelf against one wall of the living room and a massive collection of CDs, tapes and records spanning the length of the other. There’s a stack of physics midterm exams and an empty beer bottle on the coffee table, and the tie Castiel recognises from Dean’s FBI disguise draped over a dining chair in the kitchen.

“You want a coffee or somethin?” Dean asks, shrugging off his jacket and depositing it over the back of the couch.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Was this a date?”

Dean looks cornered. “What? Of course not.”

“Dean.”

“Do you want it to be one?”

“ _Dean_.”

“Maybe? I don’t fucking know, man, I just—”

Castiel crosses the room in two strides, taking Dean’s mouth in his own and pinning him against the back of the couch. He doesn’t know what he expects – for him to melt against Castiel like Meg did, or to shove him away yelling _what the fuck, Cas –_ but Dean does neither, kissing Castiel back with desperation bordering on aggression – as though he is a man dying of thirst and Castiel’s mouth is an oasis in the desert, as though he has waited as long as Castiel has for this moment, as though he has craved this since the moment Castiel pulled him from Hell.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says somewhat breathlessly when they break apart. “That was a date.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

“ _You’re_ home late,” Charlie says by way of greeting when Castiel comes home. She looks as though she’s been waiting for him, folded up on the couch in her pajamas and looking up at him with undisguised excitement. “You were out with Dean?”

“Yes.”

“And? What happened?”

“We went out to eat, and had a few drinks, and he showed me his apartment.”

“He showed you his apartment?” Charlie waggles her eyebrows. “Did he show you anything else?”

“He did not show me his penis, if that’s what you’re inferring.”

Charlie chokes on her hot chocolate. “Has anyone ever told you you’re too direct sometimes?”

“On occasion, yes. Now is my giving you every detail of the evening an essential component to our friendship, or can I go to bed?”

“It’s an essential component of our friendship. Sit.”

Castiel sighs exasperatedly and perches on the edge of the couch. “I kissed him.”

“And?” Charlie prompts.

“And what?”

“Did he kiss back?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“Is that not enough?”

“What happened after?”

“I came home.”

This, of course, is not the whole truth – there were more kisses after the first one, some as desperate as the first, some impossibly gentle and tender, all of them lighting a fire within Castiel that he hasn’t felt since his fall, and words, too – words like _Cas, what are we doing_ and _I don’t know, Dean_ and _what is it about you, man_ and _I don’t know, Dean, I’m nothing special_ and _yes you are, Cas, you are and I dunno why or how but you are._

Charlie seems to know she’s gotten all she’s going to get out of Castiel. “Okay, well, I’m going to bed. Don’t sleep in forever, we’re starting Doctor Who tomorrow and you’re helping me make pancakes for breakfast.”

 

* * *

 

Charlie has left by the time Castiel gets up the following morning, leaving a note saying she’s gone to collect snacks for “serious Who marathoning” and will be back shortly. Deciding it would be best to wait for her return before attempting the promised pancakes, Castiel pours himself coffee and is just sitting down at the kitchen table when there’s a knock on the door.

The figure standing outside is rather familiar and _entirely_ unwanted.

“Castiel,” Crowley greets, walking into the apartment without invitation. “Good to see you again.”

“I wish I could say the same for you.”

“That’s no way to treat an old business partner. And you can stop puffing yourself up too,” Crowley adds, noticing Castiel’s stiff posture. “You got no juice left, we both know that. So how’s about we make like the humans we are, sit down, and have a talk.”

“What is there to talk about?” Castiel asks icily.

“You’ve dropped off the radar for a while, mate. People are wondering where you’ve got to.”

“Metatron has wiped Sam and Dean’s memories.”

“Them too?” Crowley seems surprised. “Guess that explains why things have been a bit quieter around here.”

“You didn’t know about them?”

“I knew about Kevin. Assumed he was Metatron’s way of stopping anyone storming Heaven, seeing how you lot had the angel tablet and he’s the only one who can read it.”

“Where is the prophet now?”

“Safe, no thanks to you. He’s at college. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

“You?” Castiel asks incredulously. “You’re watching over him? You tortured him and killed his mother.”

“I would have thought,” Crowley says quietly, staring intently at Castiel, “That you, of all people, would understand my need for redemption.”

There is nothing to say to that. “Why are you here?”

“To bring you back into the game. The army’s ready. Two hundred fallen angels, couple of rogue reapers to get them upstairs, courtesy of yours truly. All they need is a leader. That’s you.”

“No.”

Crowley frowns, confused. “What do you mean, no?”

“I thought it was a relatively simple concept to grasp.”

“Cas, we have—”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Cas _tiel,”_ Crowley says, rolling his eyes, “We have an army with no general. They can’t take on Metatron without you.”

“Yes, they can. Naomi will lead. I hear she’s alive.”

“She’s not exactly heaven’s most popular.”

“And you think I am?”

Crowley shrugs. “You’re heaven’s best soldier.”

“I don’t belong to heaven anymore.”

“And what are you doing instead?” Crowley roams around the apartment. “Teaching Bible studies to a bunch of kids? You’re an angel, Castiel. Get your juice back.”

“Why are you helping?”

There’s a long silence, and Crowley clears his throat. “Personal…reasons.”

“Naomi.”

“The hell did you know about that?”

Castiel ignores his question. “The answer is no, Crowley.”

“Why?”

“Personal reasons.”

Crowley nods, picks up one of Charlie’s tshirts from where she left it on the back of the couch. “Moved in already, has she?”

“Charlie’s my roommate.”

“So who’s the lucky lady?” Crowley hesitates. “Or lad. Which way do you swing, angel?”

“You have the answer you came for. Now go.”

After one final, long look at Castiel, Crowley saunters towards the door. “I’ll be in touch.”

 

* * *

 

In the small hours of Monday morning Castiel gets a call from an unknown number.

“Castiel,” the voice says. “Your favourite former demon speaking.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m just letting you know that the plan is underway. The army invades Heaven at first light.”

“Who is the army?”

“I could list them all but we’d be here till sunrise. Inias is leading. Naomi’s 2IC. Fate is on our side – or, the Fates are. Atropos is pissy at you, though. Something about helping you with a job and you don’t bloody show up for the big fight.”

“Atropos has been pissy at me for three thousand years.”

“She’s not alone, mate. You’re not exactly popular over here.”

“Tough.”

“Well,” Crowley says, after a brief pause. “Guess that’s it, then. Good luck with your… _personal reasons_.”

“I can’t bring myself to wish you the same.”

“She’ll probably smite me the moment she gets her wings back.”

“Goodbye, Crowley.”

 

* * *

 

By nine that morning, Castiel is seated in a chair at the back of a shady tattoo parlour, gritting his teeth as the Enochian sigil to hide him from all angels is etched painfully into his all-too-human skin. This, he thinks, is the defining moment – not when Metatron took his grace, not when he fell to Earth, but right now when his mind erupts with the voices of two hundred angels who have retaken Heaven, and he cannot and will never reply.


	8. Chapter 8

_Angel radio_ , as Dean calls it, is not something which coincides well with a graceless mind. After three hours, the pounding in Castiel’s head is far worse than the sting of his new tattoo and he is lying on the couch, wondering if it will ever be possible to sleep again, when his phone buzzes with a text from Dean, asking if he is free to come over.

With a groan, Castiel pulls himself into a sitting position and dials Dean’s number.

“Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.” A wave of pain washes over him and he sucks in his breath through gritted teeth.

“Cas, you okay?”

“I’m suffering from a severe headache. I had to ring you so you wouldn’t think I was merely making excuses to decline your invitation.”

“’S fine, Cas. I wouldn’t have thought that anyway.”

“I would like nothing more than to spend time with you.”

There’s a brief silence. “Charlie home?”

“No. She’s at work until later this afternoon.”

“I’m gonna come over. Keep an eye on you.”

“That’s really not necessary—”

“Just pretend that it is, okay? I’ll be over in fifteen minutes.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel has heard the politics of Heaven being worked out over the last several hours – learned that Naomi and Inias are in charge, two leaders to keep each other accountable, and the names of the angels who will be stationed on Earth. He hears the names of fallen angels who are missing, presumed dead, and thirteen minutes after his phone call to Dean he hears his own name for the first time.

_We are unable to locate Castiel._

He recognises the voice of Nathanael, and Naomi’s answer:

_He has hidden himself from us. He is alive. Castiel? I know you can hear us. Please – let us find you. Heaven needs you, Castiel._

He doesn’t hear Dean’s knock, isn’t aware of the pain and desperation etched into his features until Dean damn well _kicks the door in._

“Cas?” Dean says urgently, leaping across the room and grasping Castiel’s shoulder. “Cas, man, you okay?”

“No,” Castiel replies, and his voice is hollow. “No, I’m not.”

Dean is gone as quickly as he arrived, and Castiel can hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. He returns moments later with painkillers and a glass of water. “Take these.”

Castiel does.

“Now talk to me.”

He shakes his head, because even if he could articulate how the loss he suffered months ago has somehow _escalated,_ how he has voluntarily surrendered any opportunity to return to Heaven and how the voices of at least three angels are even now speaking directly to him – _praying_ to him in a perverse role reversal – even if he could put his anguish into words Dean would not understand them, because to this Dean, Castiel is just a man and angels are just a nice idea.

He has to try, though, because Dean is looking at him with grave concern and Castiel owes him this much – owes him an explanation to make up for the thousands of times he has flown away and left Dean’s questions unanswered.

“I have…decided recently to turn my back on something very important to me. I know it was the right thing, but I…I can never get it back. It was the essence of who I am.”

“You’re really fucking cryptic, you know that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look at me, Cas.”

He does.

“Look, I don’t know what it is that you lost, Cas, but whatever it was it is not the essence of who you are. And I know what it’s like to lose something, and that loss is a pain you can’t ever walk away from, okay, but you don’t let that loss define you. Cos no matter what you lose there’s somethin’ left.”

“And something else to find,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean bends down to meet his kiss, Castiel’s fingers threading through his hair as he pulls Dean down onto the couch beside him. There is none of their previous desperation, just a careful tenderness and Dean’s hand cupping Castiel’s face, thumb gently stroking his cheek, and the fire within Castiel slowly smoulders.

“Thank you,” Castiel says softly when they pull apart.

“For what?”

“For being here.”

“Any time.”

The voices of the angels are still resounding in Castiel’s head, their jubilation building into an overwhelming ocean of noise, but Castiel finds himself relaxing as he leans his head on Dean’s chest, Dean’s fingers absently brushing through his hair and somehow soothing his aching mind from the outside in.

* * *

 

Charlie finds them like that when she comes home, Castiel now asleep in Dean’s arms.

“Um,” Charlie says awkwardly, freezing in the doorway with keys in hand. “Am I interrupting?”

“No. Just don’t wake him up.”

“Dean, did you kick the door in or something?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that—”

“It’s fine. Just...watch you don’t break anything else in the throes of passion, okay?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Dean assures her quickly. “I was worried about him, he’s not feeling great right now…”

Charlie drops her bag on the table and inspects the sleeping Castiel, as though a closer look will tell her everything. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Dunno, he said he had a headache but hopefully he’s sleeping that off. Hey, you noticed anything weird about him lately?”

“He was up literally before dawn this morning. He usually sleeps in. I think he was on the phone?”

“Yeah, I think he might have gotten some bad news.” Dean carefully extracts himself from underneath Castiel. “Could you do me a favour and just keep an eye on him for me?”

“Yeah, no problem. Got somewhere to be?”

“Got some exams to mark. Tell him I’ll be back tomorrow if he’s feeling better. Or if he’s not, either way.”

After Dean leaves, Charlie tucks a blanket around Castiel and heads down to the supermarket. Her usual methods of making anyone feel better – sci-fi movies and chocolate – don’t work for Cas. He likes classical music and Horrible Histories and a particular kind of loose leaf tea which Charlie has never learnt the name of but can recognise the packet on the shelf. His tastes are eclectic at best, a mixture of what his vessel liked (burgers in particular) and what he’s discovered since becoming human – and a few things from previous vessels that he remembers. Before this one, Castiel hasn’t taken a vessel for a good few thousand years – which means he has a weird liking for unleavened bread and vinegary wine. Living with him is an adventure.

Charlie roams around the supermarket collecting tea and burgers and other bits and pieces Castiel likes (she leaves out the ancient diet stuff.) She doesn’t know what’s going on with him, what the predawn phone call was about or where he went before she even left for work this morning, but she’s always figured how just like it’s the little things in life that make you happy, it’s the little things in life that cheer you up when the shit hits the fan. If for Cas that means burgers and overpriced tea and an evening of Horrible Histories, so be it.

* * *

 

Castiel is awake when she returns. “Where’s Dean?”

“He left when I came home from work,” Charlie replies, setting the tea to brewing. “Did you know he kicked our door in? Dude was worried about you.”

“I ought to apologise. He had no reason to be worried.”

“Cas. What’s going on?”

“I had a visit from Crowley the other day.”

“Crowley?” Charlie looks alarmed. “Demon Crowley? King of Hell Crowley?”

“Formerly.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked me to join the army to take back Heaven from Metatron. I declined. The army was successful. Heaven is back in the hands of the Host.”

“That’s…a good thing, right?”

“I declined the opportunity to return. I have chosen humanity. The finality of my decision scares me.”

“Wow. Yeah. Guess that is a big decision.” Charlie deposits the tea in front of him and he looks up at her, puzzled.

“Did you buy this for me?”

“Course I did. Dean mentioned you weren’t in a great space, so…I bought you tea.” Charlie shrugs – she knows it’s a bit of a pointless gesture, that a cup of tea is not going to ease Castiel’s pain at permanently leaving the angel club, but it’s the only thing within her power to do. She doesn’t exactly have a way with words.

“I appreciate it,” Castiel says, and the look on his face is so grateful, so _touched_ by such a simple gesture that Charlie wraps her arms around him and settles onto the couch with him.

“You know I’m here,” she says, and the words sound a bit silly and a bit too cliché – straight out of terrible TV shows. “If you wanna talk. Or…whatever. I’ll probably say the wrong thing if I try and talk so I can just listen. If you want.”

“Thank you,” Castiel replies, and Charlie thinks that’s that. They eat dinner and share the washing up as usual with few words spoken between them, and Charlie puts on a DVD and wriggles closer to Castiel. She’d never have picked him for a cuddler when she first met him, but he seems to crave human contact without quite understanding why. The first time Cas hugged her, several weeks ago, he’d stepped back in confusion and said, “I don’t know why I did that,” and Charlie (having overcome her brief offence at this) explained that they’re friends, and friends hug each other to show affection or because sometimes they need to just hold someone. Castiel had still seemed confused by this, but no longer stiffly avoided physical contact like he used to, and in time actively began to seek it out.

Ten minutes into the DVD, Castiel starts talking – seemingly random memories of his angelhood – creation, thousands of years of human history, battles he’s fought, brothers who have lived and died at his side. He speaks softly, with wonder and reverence and fondness for angels and humans alike, and occasionally his voice will falter and become laced with regret, and then he will smile sadly and continue with another story, and Charlie is mesmerised by his words in a way she has never been mesmerised by anything. He concludes with Dean – the Righteous Man, the prophecies surrounding him, rescuing him from Hell and seeing his shining, brilliant soul gleaming under the filth of the Pit, their long story of trust and betrayal and friendship and love and sacrifice and pain, _and now here we are,_ and Charlie realises as he falls silent that this has been his farewell tour. Castiel, angel of the Lord, is gone, and in his place sits Castiel the man, bowed and broken and saddened beyond repair, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the television.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean is back the next day as promised.

“Feeling better?”

“Much better, thank you,” Castiel responds. It’s been twenty-four hours since the angels started talking, and he thinks his mind has perhaps adjusted to the constant chatter. He is able to filter it out at any rate.

“Have you, uh – checked on your car?”

Castiel’s eyes widen in panic. _“Shit.”_

The word tastes foreign on his tongue – he’s not one for profanity, has never been able to pick up the easy way with which Dean drops vulgar language into his sentences like punctuation. Even now, his mind is still translating everything he says from Enochian – a language which surpasses any human’s in the depth and clarity and conciseness of its words. There is no equivalent for _shit_ in Enochian, the same as there are no words in English or in any other language that can encompass the vulgarity, vitriol and vehement _hatred_ embedded in a single Enochian curse.

Dean is grinning at him. “I was beginning to think you didn’t even know how to swear.”

“Sometimes I think the same.”

They walk down to campus together, keeping the conversation deliberately light and avoiding the topic of _what happened yesterday._ Castiel is pleasantly surprised to discover his car still in one piece in the staff lot.

“I believe we had a bet?” he prompts Dean, gesturing to the car. Dean shakes his head as he pulls $20 out of his wallet and hands it to Castiel.

“You still need a new car,” Dean says, contemptuously nudging the rear wheel with his boot.

“Would you like to go out tonight?” Castiel asks, slightly too quickly. “For a meal?”

“This a date?”

“Yes?” Castiel ventures, because he’s quite sure the nature of their relationship is romantic at this point, but Dean having to ask makes him falter.

Dean grins. “Then yeah. Yeah, we can go out tonight. But in my car,” he adds firmly.

Dean’s apartment is a good half an hour walk from campus, and it begins to rain after ten minutes. Castiel, trudging through puddles with water running down his scalp and into his eyes, remembers bitterly how he had once been able to control the weather – localised, yes, but that’s all he would need  to stop it _raining on him._

By the time they get back to Dean’s they are both sodden, and Castiel’s feet make awful squelching noises. Dean peels off his shoes and socks at the door and disappears down the hallway, reemerging seconds later with a couple of towels. He tosses one to Castiel and scrubs the other through his hair and over his face.

“Y’know, maybe we should just stay in,” Dean says as the roar of the rain on the roof grows louder. “Order some pizza?”

“That sounds good,” Castiel says. He stands awkwardly, dripping water onto Dean’s kitchen floor, towel draped around his shoulders.

“I’ll grab you some dry clothes,” Dean says, returning a minute later with a pile of clothes. He hands some of it to Castiel before peeling off his soaked shirt and tossing it onto the floor.

Castiel feels suddenly warmer. He has seen Dean shirtless before, of course – but this time is different, not least because this Dean doesn’t remember those times. He looks away, awkwardly, before Dean can catch him staring, and quickly takes off his own shirt, tugging Dean’s dry one over his head –

“Shit, Cas—”

Castiel freezes, looks over at Dean, who stares at him gobsmacked before crossing the room to stand in front of him, eyes glued to his chest.

“Is there a problem?” Castiel asks cautiously, arms still awkwardly caught in the shirt.

“Your tattoo,” Dean manages, and Castiel assumes he is referring to his freshly-inked Enochian sigil until Dean gestures wildly to his own anti-possession tattoo. “Dude. _Why_ do we have the same tattoo?”

“I don’t know.”

“In the _same place?”_

“It’s an anti-possession symbol,” Castiel says slowly. “Certain cultures believe it can ward off demonic possession.”

“I know that,” Dean says impatiently. “Why do you have a tattoo of it? I wouldn’t have picked you for superstitious.”

“The same goes for you.”

Dean exhales slowly, like he’s about to explain something both difficult and important, but he furrows his brow as he looks up at Castiel. “Your shirt on or off?” he asks eventually, and Castiel’s cheeks redden as he realises he’s still entangled.

“Which would you prefer?”

“Honestly? Off.”

Castiel nods, dropping the shirt to the floor, and Dean steps in closer to kiss him.

They stand there, kissing slowly and gently as if they have all the time in the world, and the fire that ignites inside Castiel whenever Dean is around casts a warm glow that heats him from the inside out until the goosebumps fade from his exposed skin. Dean’s fingertips ghost over the sigils below his collarbone and bring the goosebumps back.

“These new?” he asks, voice almost too loud in the heavy silence.

“Yesterday.”

“Cas,” Dean whispers, and the tenderness in his voice caresses Castiel’s heart and drives something sharp deep inside him at the same time, and he meets Dean’s eyes and knows there is no hiding.

“What happened yesterday?” Dean’s voice is soft, gentle; so is the hand cupping Castiel’s face and the thumb stroking his cheek, as if negating the effect of his words.

Castiel still flinches. He removes the hand from his face, grips it tightly. “I need you, Dean,” he says softly, and this time his kiss is desperate, clinging to Dean as if he is drowning and Dean is a raft, and the fire within threatens to consume him and he wants to burn with it.

It feels like his grace, and his wings are stretching out behind him, filling the apartment with feathers of light and shadow.

“You need me,” Dean repeats in wonder. “Cas.”

There is a plea in Castiel’s eyes and Dean answers it by kissing him, slow and sure and firm. “You can have me.”


	10. Chapter 10

Dean’s bedroom is sleek and modern and clean, all crisp sheets and sharp corners and neutral colours. It is not Dean, Castiel thinks, because this room is too cold for someone who burns so brightly, and Dean agrees with his unspoken words.

“Not very homely, is it?” he says, twisting in Castiel’s arms to look around the room. “Never quite felt right.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, and he surprises himself with his sharpness. “I could not care less about our surroundings right now.”

Dean just smirks, an infuriating self-satisfied smirk, and Castiel pushes him onto the bed and kisses him until his smirk disappears.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs, and Castiel presses his lips to Dean’s neck, hands trailing down his sides to rest at his hips.

“Say it properly.”

“ _Castiel_ ,” and this time it is a prayer that Castiel can answer. His hands go to Dean’s belt buckle, undo it, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat as Castiel slides his jeans off. “Cas.”

“You have a very limited vocabulary, Dean.”

“Shut up,” Dean growls.

“That was rude.” Castiel is calm, impossibly calm as his hand strays to Dean’s stiffening cock, rubbing him through the fabric of his underwear, and Dean arches up into his touch, one hand gripping at the sheets, the other scrabbling with the fly on Castiel’s jeans.

They remove each other’s surplus clothing: Castiel slow and deliberate, Dean clumsy with need. He lies naked and shameless on the bed, pinned by Castiel’s body and his penetrating stare, and Castiel thinks of the Fall of mankind: _then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves,_ and Dean is without shame because he is without sin.

He kisses Dean slowly, moving from his lips to his neck and along his collarbone while his hand wraps around Dean’s cock, impossibly slowly, while a low growl comes from Dean’s throat and his hand closes over Castiel’s – “I _need_ you, Cas,” and Castiel _ignites_ at his words, those impossible words that he has not realised until now that he’s been translating wrong – that there is a difference between _I require your help_ or _I rely on you_ and _I need you, every aspect of you in every way, with me and beside me and in front of me and behind me and inside me and part of me –_ and his hands fly over Dean as if trying to touch all of him at once, lips and tongue and teeth attacking his mouth as he brings their bodies together, grinding against him with a primal need and a celestial passion, and Dean groans a “ _fuck, Cas,”_ which he swallows down and whispers the most ancient of confessions instead. _Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm, for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame._

“What language is that?”

“Hebrew.” _Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. If one were to give all the wealth of one’s house for love, it would be utterly scorned._

Castiel switches to Enochian now, his voice steady and lyrical despite his heavy breathing and the passion threatening to overwhelm him, and it sounds at once beautiful and guttural to his human ears and Dean closes his eyes, lets the words wash over him, and Castiel fights the urge to smile because Dean has no idea what he is professing to want in the language of Heaven, desires and intentions that would make Gabriel himself blush, and Dean murmurs, “This isn’t Hebrew is it?” and Castiel replies, “No, Enochian.”

Dean’s eyes snap open and his mouth stretches into a smile. “The language of angels?” he asks. “You’re _unholy.”_

“You have no idea,” Castiel says, and he moves swiftly, kissing his way down Dean’s neck, chest, torso and the insides of his thighs, and Dean groans, mutters “Cas, you son of a bitch,” and Castiel takes his cock into his mouth, tantalisingly slow, glancing up at Dean with a look that tells him Castiel knows _exactly_ what he’s doing.

Castiel does not know what he’s doing, but the noises Dean makes, the hands buried in and gripping his hair and the wild rocking of his hips tells him it either doesn’t matter or Dean can’t tell the difference, and he brings Dean to the edge and keeps him there, and “Cas, _please,”_ and he is gone, head thrown back, eyes closed as a yell escapes from his throat. Castiel swallows him down, kisses his way back up to Dean’s mouth, and Dean reaches down, hand brushing Castiel’s cock, and Castiel sucks in his breath at the touch, closing his eyes.

“You’re fucking beautiful, Cas,” Dean murmurs, and his hand is loose and lazy. Castiel leans into it, desperate with need, and Dean laughs. “See what you did to me?”

“ _Dean.”_

“Relax, you’ll get there,” Dean says, and his hand quickens, thumb brushing across Castiel’s tip, and Castiel is combusting now, radiating heat and desire until it consumes him and he knows he will explode, decimate the world around him in an eruption of pure light and energy, because how can this thing building inside him, giving him wings, be anything but grace?

He is crying out in broken Enochian, his translation ability destroyed, stringing together words too holy and beautiful for him to have ever spoken before, and the look of awe on Dean’s face pushes him over the edge and he is collapsing, spilling into Dean’s hand and over his stomach, and Dean takes his face with both hands and kisses him hard.

* * *

 

They lie together, entangled, while the darkness falls outside and the rain eases. Castiel is tucked under Dean’s arm, one finger tracing his anti-possession tattoo, and Dean finally breaks the silence.

“It was for my brother, you know. The tattoo.”

“For Sam?” Castiel shifts, props himself up on one elbow to look at Dean.

“He uh…he went through a rough patch a while ago. More like one real long rough patch – he couldn’t catch a break. But he was real bad for a while. Kept thinking there was something evil inside him, something tainting him, you know? And it killed me. He’s a good kid. Purest heart of anyone you’ve ever met, and he’s havin’ nightmares and he can’t sleep and he thinks there are _demons_ inside him, and so one night when he’s screamin’ and shakin’ in his sleep I wake him up and take him down to the tattoo place down the road. Found this symbol a while ago in an old book, and – well, it seems stupid, we’re not superstitious or anythin’, but I told Sammy it warded off demons, so we both got it done. And I think – it’s stupid, but it brings him comfort. Like prayin’ and believin’ in angels.”

“I believe in angels,” Castiel says softly.

“Yeah?”

“They don’t bring me comfort. They show me the importance of free will, because they have none.”

“Y’reckon we’re better off than angels?”

“I would stake my mortal life on it.”

Castiel leans over, brushes Dean’s lips softly with his own, and the conversation is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they realized they were naked; so they sewed fig leaves together and made coverings for themselves." -Genesis 3.7, NIV translation
> 
> "Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm, for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away. If one were to give all the wealth of one’s house for love, it would be utterly scorned." -Song of Songs 8.6-7, NIV
> 
> I'm going to hell


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel feels slightly disoriented when he awakes in Dean’s bed the next morning, curled into him and tucked under his arm. He shifts, realises he is, in fact, perfectly happy right here, and settles down to sleep again.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Dean greets him, and Castiel grunts in response and burrows deeper under the blankets.

Dean wakes him up slowly, with lazy kisses and whispered words, and Castiel feels slightly irritated because the sun is barely above the horizon and it is _too early_ for this, and certainly too early to _want_ this.

“Dean. I am not a morning person.”

“I figured, lazy ass.” Dean kisses him again and this time Castiel responds, more to assure Dean that he is not being rejected rather than to actually begin anything. Dean seems to understand this, pulls away and climbs out of bed. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

Castiel mumbles an affirmative response – he’s not sure which language, probably Enochian, and watches Dean appreciatively as he walks out of the room butt naked.

Dean returns a few minutes later with the coffee, and there is a blast of cold air as he pulls back the covers to climb back into bed. Partly to escape the cold and partly for ulterior motives, Castiel shuffles closer until he is cuddled up to Dean again, taking the coffee offered to him.

“Can I ask you a question, Cas?”

“Of course.”

“What’s your first language?”

Castiel frowns in confusion. “English.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What brings you to that conclusion?”

“Shit like that, for one. You talk real formally all the time. And, uh, last night.” Dean colours slightly, lowers his face into the steam of his coffee. “I dunno what language you were speakin’ when you came, but it wasn’t English and there’s no way you were focusing on translating.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me, Cas.”

“Enochian.”

There’s a long silence. “That’s your first language?”

“Yes.”

“The language you first learned.”

“Yes.”

“The one you talk with your family in at home.”

“I have neither a family nor a home, but yes.”

“Your first language is _angel-speak?”_

“Yes.”

“The fuck, man.” Dean shakes his head, takes a gulp of his coffee.

“You’re a lot more willing to believe me than I thought you would be.”

“You find new ways of surprisin’ me every day, Cas. Maybe one day soon I’ll start getting used to it.”

 

* * *

 

Over a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs, Castiel broaches the question he feels has increased in importance over the – _activities_ of the previous night.

“Dean, what exactly is the nature of our relationship?”

Dean freezes, forkful of bacon halfway to his mouth, and Castiel realises – belatedly, perhaps – that this Dean is probably about as well-equipped to deal with such a question as normal Dean.

“Um,” he manages, shoving the bacon into his mouth as an excuse not to talk for a few moments. Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“What do you want it to be?” Dean asks at length.

“I’m asking you,” Castiel says patiently.

“I uh…” he pauses. “I don’t have the best track record with relationships.”

“That’s your answer?”

“No, I’m just…full disclosure, you know?”

“I couldn’t care less about your track record.”

“Normally I wouldn’t even…I’m more of a…one night…but you’re…”

“I’m what?” Castiel prompts.

“Different,” Dean says eventually. “Dammit Cas, you’re just _different._ And…I dunno. Maybe we could make it work.” Dean’s said his piece and promptly shovels food into his mouth, not meeting Castiel’s eyes.

“I think we could too,” Castiel says, and that’s that.

 

* * *

 

Castiel remembers slightly too late that today is Charlie’s day off, and his attempts to slip quietly into the apartment are thwarted from the beginning. Charlie’s on the couch, a coffee in her hands and a wide grin on her face.

“Mooorning, Romeo.”

“I bear no resemblance to William Shakespeare’s character,” Castiel says, but Charlie’s smile is infectious and he can’t help but return it.

“Spent the night at Dean’s?”

“I did.”

She waggles her eyebrows. “So did you—”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even finish the question.”

“Yes.”

Charlie silently holds up her hand for a high five. Castiel doesn’t quite understand the custom, but he understands the cameraderie behind it, and he slaps his palm against Charlie’s.

“So what are we doing today?” Castiel asks, because days where he and Charlie are both off work are rare, and Charlie designated them as Cas’n’Charlie’s Roommate Bonding Time. Her ability to come up with something new and enjoyable every time this happens is remarkable.

“We haven’t had a Harry Potter marathon yet.”

“I read the books,” Castiel says, confused. “I understand they’re better than the movies.” Charlie had been very insistent on this fact, especially when it came to Lord of the Rings, and had made him read Tolkein’s entire collection of works before she would let him watch the movies. This left very little for Castiel to get out of the movies aside from appreciating the scenery – “We have always held New Zealand to be one of the finest examples of my Father’s craftsmanship,” and for Charlie to educate him on the finer points of cinematography. When they watched the Hobbit, Charlie had kept up a steady stream of chatter about the actors and which ones she had gotten autographs from – having travelled to Wellington for the world premiere the previous year.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “But we need to watch the movies and complain about how inaccurate they are. Especially Half Blood Prince, don’t even get me _started_.”

Complaining about movies doesn’t seem to Castiel to be much fun, but then again, most things that Charlie suggests don’t sound fun and end up being very enjoyable, so he’s willing to go along with her.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel enforces two days without Dean, in which he retrieves his car (finally) from campus, watches the Harry Potter movies with Charlie and grades most of the theology essays in one fell swoop, fuelled alternately by coffee, tea and Red Bull, a beverage favoured by most of his students. When Dean calls, it is a welcome relief.

“Hello, Dean.”

“How’s the grading going?”

“I think I hate people,” Castiel says.

Dean chuckles, and Castiel finds his annoyance lifting. “Tell me about it. I just finished my physics class’s midterms, and I could really use a drink.”

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“Five o’clock somewhere,” Dean responds, and Castiel shifts uneasily. This is too much like Hunter Dean.

“Let’s go get coffee,” Castiel suggests instead, and Dean laughs.

“Whatever you want, Cas.” Castiel can hear the smile in Dean’s voice. “I’ll pick you up in fifteen.”

_Going to get coffee_ , it turns out, is a far greater mistake on Castiel’s part than a beer or two would have been on Dean’s. He’s been awake all night, sustained by caffeine alone, and his double shot espresso  doesn’t help matters. He feels wired, restless and mildly ill, and his trembling hand is rattling the entire table.

“Did you sleep last night?” Dean asks.

“No.”

“How much coffee have you had before now?”

“Too much.”

Dean reaches over, takes Castiel’s remaining coffee and drains it. He can’t even bring himself to protest.

“No more coffee.”

Castiel gets the giggles soon after that – he doesn’t even remember what Dean said to set him off, and it’s the strangest sensation because he doesn’t think he can _stop_ laughing, and Dean’s bemused face just makes everything funnier until Dean rolls his eyes, says “Okay, we’re done here,” and leads Castiel out of the café and back to the Impala.

“You’re holding my hand,” Castiel says eventually.

“Yeah, and if you make a big deal out of it I’m gonna let go.”

Castiel remains silent after that, and they climb into the Impala and head back to Dean’s. Castiel feels slightly guilty about the essays he still has to grade, but they’ve got a few days left of the break and at the moment his priorities lie elsewhere – such as pinning Dean up against the wall of his apartment as soon as he closes the door behind him.

“Dude, you smell like all-nighter,” Dean informs him when they break apart.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel huffs. “I could go home and shower.”

“You could shower here,” Dean counters. “With me.”

“That is a preferable option.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel doesn’t leave Dean’s apartment for the next two days. He gets a message from Charlie, saying he’s either having an unholy amount of sex or he’s lying dead in a ditch and could he please let her know that he’s not lying dead in a ditch. He toys with the idea of denying the former, decides she probably wouldn’t believe him anyway, and sends a reply of _Not dead in a ditch. Feel free to draw your own conclusions._

Sam drops in unannounced one morning when Dean and Castiel are lying entwined in the sheets, his shouts of “Dean! You home?” dragging them out of their slumber.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean says, flinging himself out of bed (and kicking Castiel in the process) launching into a pair of jeans (they’re actually Castiel’s) and rushing to intercept Sam before he can get to the bedroom.

“The hell are you doing here so early?” Dean demands.

“It’s nearly eleven, Dean. Late one last night?”

“You could say that.”

After a valiant effort to stay silent, Castiel sneezes.

“You’ve got someone over?” Sam asks immediately.

“Dammit,” Dean mutters.

Castiel buries his head in Dean’s pillow and hopes he won’t have to put on pants.

“So uh,” Sam says. “Who is she?”

There’s a long pause. “Not a she.”

“Is it Castiel?”

“The _hell_ did you know that?”

There’s no reply from Sam, and after a moment Dean calls, “Cas? You can come out now.”

“Yeah, speaking of _coming out,_ Dean…”

Castiel rolls out of bed, stepping into Dean’s jeans and shuffling to the doorway.

“You’ve known for years, Sammy,” Dean is saying defensively.

“Yeah, but it would have been nice for you to acknowledge it, you know? ‘Hey Sam, I’m into dudes.’ ‘No problem Dean, thanks for telling me.’ You’ve been so deep in the closet you found Narnia – why does he have the same tattoo as us?” Sam asks, suddenly changing tack.

“I had it long before I met you both,” Castiel says. “I’m a theologian. I liked the symbolism.”

“Oh, right,” Sam says awkwardly.

“So what brings your ugly ass here?” Dean asks.

“It’s called a _social visit_ , Dean, I haven’t seen you for a while.” Sam grins. “Though I can see why.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m happy for you both.”

“Sammy, I swear to God—”

“Called it weeks ago.”

“You little shit.”

Sam ignores him. “You guys hungry? I could take my brother and his _partner_ out for lunch.”

“You paying?” Dean asks, and Sam looks triumphant that he hasn’t disputed Sam’s use of the word _partner._ It makes Castiel strangely happy.

“Yeah, I’ll pay. Um, I’ll wait here while you two…get dressed.”


	13. Chapter 13

Reality bursts the bubble of romantic bliss that Castiel has found himself in three weeks later. He has thought of human emotion as simple and steady, something that, at its core, remains constant despite the surface changes – a happy man can become momentarily irritated at an inconvenience, or saddened by a tragedy on the news, but remains happy – and Castiel considers himself a happy man. He is, after all, finally with the man he has loved for the past five years – so how has a deep feeling of melancholy settled around him like a heavy, cold fog, despite the fire that burns within him for Dean? The other aspects of his life are pleasant enough – he gets along with his colleagues, he enjoys teaching and facilitating discussion among his students, he values the company and friendship of Charlie and Sam, but even without these factors, shouldn’t his relationship with Dean, the man he fell for, rebelled for and betrayed Heaven for, be enough for him? Doesn’t Dean, in every facet of his existence, represent everything Castiel has fought for?

He tries to explain this to Charlie. Her response, as usual, is to put on a movie – this time one called _500 Days of Summer_. It leaves him confused and feeling cheated out of an answer.

“I don’t understand. What relevance does this have for me?”

“The guy puts her on a pedestal,” Charlie explains patiently. “He projects all his expectations for a relationship onto her, see? He expects her to make him happy. Give him a purpose in his life.”

“You’re suggesting I put Dean on a pedestal?” He’s irritated, and it shows in his voice.

“Pedestal, no. But you’re expecting him to give you a purpose. You can’t make a person your purpose in life, Cas. You can love him with all your heart and all that crap, but he can’t be your reason for living. You gotta find something else.”

“I fell _for_ him. I gave up Heaven for him, I turned my back on my family, _all for Dean._ He is my purpose. I am not a character in a movie created from the narrow constraints of human experience.” Castiel stands, fixing a cold stare on Charlie. “I am more than human experience. _We_ are more than human experience.”

“Cas—”

“I’m a fallen _angel,_ not a lovesick human. You would do well to remember that.”

Castiel sweeps from the room, leaving Charlie biting her nails and suddenly aware of how cold it is.

 

* * *

 

Castiel’s apology the next morning is stiff, directed at the window overlooking the kitchen counter rather than Charlie herself. She accepts it nevertheless, pouring her cereal without another word, though she is bursting with things left unsaid. She’s never been nervous about speaking her mind around him before, but Castiel can be downright terrifying when he wants to be. She’d never met him as a full-blown angel, but he’s intimidating enough when fallen, still thousands of years old and still smouldering with Heaven’s wrath.

But Charlie’s never been one to let things like that stop her from speaking her mind, so she pauses in the doorway on her way to work and says, “Cas.”

“Yes, Charlie?”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Noted.” Castiel seems almost bored by the conversation.

“Were you trying to scare me last night?”

This, at least, gets a reaction. “No,” he says, looking worried. “That was not my intention. Did I scare you?”

“I’m not scared of you, Cas,” Charlie replies, plopping onto the couch beside him. “I trust you. But you going _into fearsome angel of the lord_ mode is kinda intimidating.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You better be.”

“You have nothing to fear from me.”

“I know. But you pull that again and I’ll give _you_ something to fear. ’Kay?”

“What will you do to me?” Castiel murmurs. “Kill me in a video game?”

Charlie rolls her eyes. “One day you’ll get emotionally invested in a game. You’ll think you’re doing well, kicking ass and taking names – and there I’ll be. Behind you. Shooting you in the back.”

“You should go to work.” He smiles as she leaves, telling her that they’re good – but she can only hope he’s taken her words to heart.

 

* * *

 

It has been raining for five days and Castiel is miserable. His apartment is damp, the windows perpetually dripping with condensation, the living room filled with his and Charlie’s wet coats and shoes, and it smells musty. His classes are half empty and he can’t help but be offended that his students won’t even walk ten minutes in the rain to hear his teaching, and Dean has been tied up in extra review sessions, exam writing and departmental meetings as they approach the end of the semester. His existential crisis – as Charlie labelled it – continues to plague him, and all he can do is look forward to the time he spends with Dean. Even that is restricted enough, and their Friday afternoon coffee dates have turned into desperate and furtive sessions in Dean’s locked office. The secrecy is exciting on one level, but Castiel hates it – hates the hurriedness of it and the aggressive silence and having to swallow Dean’s words with kisses when he wants nothing more than to hear him moaning Castiel’s name, and having to compose himself afterwards and walk through campus with an impassive look on his face, as if he ought to be ashamed of Dean.

Dean seems to enjoy it – the breaking of these arbitrary, unspoken rules humans impose on themselves, and for that reason Castiel will continue to visit him in his office, but he longs for the day – _days_ – where he can have Dean to himself, just the two of them, and Castiel can show Dean the extent of his love _properly_ – body, soul and spirit. Castiel longs for an intimacy that doesn’t stop at sex, can’t be expressed in words or kisses or the touch of skin on skin, but as time goes on he begins to wonder if humans are even capable of such expression, and he must content himself with the sparks that set his body alight but leave his graceless soul empty.

He meets Dean in the staff parking lot beside the Impala, waiting as Dean tosses his belongings into the trunk. There’s more stuff than usual – “Sammy’s car’s gone in for repairs, so technically we’re sharing. Check this out – it’s got a false bottom.” Dean lifts up the cover where their arsenal was once hidden, but the trunk is empty – save for one long, black feather.

Castiel cannot breathe.

“Hey, haven’t seen this before,” Dean says, picking up the feather and inspecting it. “Wonder how it got here – what do you think it’s from, Cas?”

Castiel does not trust himself to speak, just reaches out a hand to the feather and Dean hands it over. It sparks something within him, humming with residual grace. It is _him,_ completely and intimately him, and he remembers plucking this feather from his wing, the sharp tug as it came away in his hand; he remembers giving Dean three of them, and how they seemed dead in comparison with his own blinding light. The feather lying now in his open hand is resplendent, somehow more alive in death than any living human, and it is the answer to everything.

“I have to go,” he says, and his voice is broken and thick with traitorous tears. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

He has lost count of how many times he has said those words. He hopes this is the last time.


	14. Chapter 14

The journey from the parking lot to his room is a blur. Dean shouts after him, his phone rings on the passenger seat, irritated drivers honk at his erratic driving, Charlie asks him something in a worried voice when he walks through the door, but his mind is occupied with a singular purpose. The feather clutched in his hand, he shuts himself in his room and sinks to his knees.

_“_ Naomi,”and he doesn’t know why he prays to her first – she has betrayed him, invaded his mind, forced him to kill, but she is the only angel who has kept calling out to him long after the others either gave up or forgot him, or simply thought he was not worth finding.

There is no response from her, and Castiel fights his rising panic – she would not recognise his voice, human as it is and tangled in the thousands upon thousands of prayers being offered up right at this very moment across the world. “Naomi, it’s Castiel.”

_Castiel,_ he hears her say, and there’s joy in her voice as she speaks his name. Of course there is, she’s _family,_ she’s been calling his name for weeks now. _Castiel. Where are you, brother? Come back to us, please._

“I’ve made a mistake,” Castiel confesses, and there are tears flowing hot down his cheeks now. “Please – I want to come home.”

_Of course, Castiel. I will meet you on Earth with your grace. Where are you? I can’t find you._

“I am protected with sigils. I will let you know my precise location soon.”

_Don’t disappear again, Castiel. We need you._

“Is Heaven safe for me?”

Naomi hesitates. _The angels bear no grudge against you for the Fall, Castiel. They are aware of Metatron’s plan._

“I wasn’t talking about the Fall.”

_You have done your penance for the war. There is a garrison waiting to go where you lead. The full extent of Heaven’s mercy has been extended to you._

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

Castiel is silent when he emerges, still clutching the feather. He walks around the living room, carefully tidying his belongings – mugs in the kitchen, books stacked in neat piles.

“Cas,” Charlie says eventually, watching his progress worriedly. “What are you doing?”

“I am returning to Heaven,” he replies, and his voice is flat, resolute. “I am no human. I should not have tried to live like one.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Thank you for your help.”

This is the Castiel Charlie has only read about – polite, mechanical, emotionless, as if he has already given up his humanity with his decision, and something in her breaks at this, drives her across the room to fling herself into his arms. “Cas. Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, but there is a shake in his voice now and Charlie holds onto it, clutches him tighter as if she can keep him on Earth just by holding him, and after a moment he wraps his arms around her.

“You’re my best friend,” Charlie manages. “Cas – I can’t – not with Dean and Sam – please don’t go.”

Castiel pulls away and his eyes are shining. “Charlie. Charlotte Gertrude Middleton – ” Charlie flinches at the use of her real name, but Castiel holds her gaze – “I promise, in the name of all Heaven, that I will watch over you.”

“I don’t want you to watch over me,” Charlie says, and she’s crying now but she doesn’t care. “I want you to stay here and watch crappy documentaries and overanalyse soap operas. And fall aleep on the couch like an old man, and be all sappy and gross with Dean, and listen to me babble about nothing. We were supposed to get a cat, remember? We were going to be the crazy cat people.”

“Charlie, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, but I belong in Heaven.” He pulls her close again, closes his eyes. “If you ever need me, I will always hear your prayers.”

She draws a shuddering breath, buries her head in his chest and doesn’t say anything.

At Castiel’s request, she leaves the apartment, sits on the step outside and waits.

When the blinding flash of light fades, she opens the door and finds the apartment empty.

 

* * *

 

Dean comes around later, finding Charlie on the couch with a block of chocolate, watching Chamber of Secrets with tears rolling down her face.

“Charlie? What’s up?”

She swipes quickly at her eyes. “Oh God, he didn’t tell you.”

“Who didn’t tell me what?”

“Cas is gone.”

“What do you mean, _gone?”_

“He disappeared.”

“Did he say where he was going? He’s coming back, right?” Dean looks panicked.

Charlie shakes her head miserably. “He’s not coming back.”

“That _son of a bitch,”_ Dean spits, and Charlie is taken aback by his vehemence. “The _hell_ did he go? You have no idea? He said nothing?”

“He said goodbye.”

“He said goodbye to _you_? And he didn’t fucking say _anything_ to me, what the _fuck_ is he doing? I’m his goddamn _boyfriend_.” Dean paces back and forth, both hands pulling at his hair. “He didn’t say anything else?”

“No.”

“ _Son of a BITCH!”_ Dean roars, and Charlie jumps. “How could he – he didn’t – I thought – I _love_ him!”

The fight seems to go out of Dean at this point and he sags, sinks down onto the couch and cradles his head in his hands. “Goddammit, Cas,” he whispers, and Charlie looks out to the sky and wonders whether Castiel would answer if she prayed for him to come back.


	15. Chapter 15

 Charlie hadn’t realised how weak her friendship with Dean had been until Cas left. Now he has no reason to come around and she, working in IT, has no reason to see him around campus. He’ll give her a smile if he happens to pass her but won’t stop to talk or ask her to hang out, and she’s left alone. The apartment seems too big for just her but she doesn’t want to find another roommate – part of her holding onto hope that Castiel will return. She’ll go out to drinks with her workmates on Friday nights, but her social interaction outside work has limited itself to online forums again, and she’s not going to lie – she’s lonely and without purpose.

She adopts a cat, choosing a fat ginger thing for the sole purpose of calling him Crookshanks, and tries to content herself with watching movies with him purring on her lap, go back to the life she used to lead before Dean and Sam walked into her apartment and her life two years ago and turned everything upside down.

She can’t forget the supernatural though – can’t go back to thinking of angels and demons and monsters as plot devices in fiction, and it’s almost Christmas when she scrolls through her phone, finds a name she’s mostly ignored, and thinks _why the fuck not._

“Garth?”

“Yo. Who’s this?”

“Charlie. Charlie Bradbury. I’m, um, a friend of the Winchesters.”

“Right, yeah, Charlie, I remember you. How can I help?”

“I was wondering if you had a case.”

“A case?” Garth repeats.

“Yeah. I’m pretty bored, and I figured I could put my knowledge to use, you know?”

“Charlie, I don’t—”

“Sam and Dean trained me,” she says, cutting him off. “I learned from the best. I’ll be fine.”

“What’ve you dealt with before?”

“Um. Leviathans, fairies and djinn.”

“I don’t have anything like that at the moment…couple of demonic omens not too far from where you are.”

“Demons?” Charlie hesitates for a split second, decides she may as well jump into the deep end, and says “Yeah, I’ll take it. Text me the details.”

After hanging up with Garth, Charlie goes into Castiel’s room where they’d hidden various hunting necessities, takes holy water, a demon bomb, Ruby’s knife, and hops into her car. She can take a few days off work without getting into trouble, surely.

 

* * *

 

The hunt is a relatively straightforward one, though Charlie is incredibly nervous the entire time. It’s harder than she expects to pass as FBI to question victims’ families without Dean to back her up (or to lead so she can follow) and the thought of actually coming face to face with a demon is a pretty scary one. She’s got a couple of water pistols filled with holy water tucked into her pockets and the exorcism committed to memory. She tracks the demon, tails it, lays a hidden devil’s trap in its hangout in an abandoned warehouse, and waits.

The demon never suspected her, sneering from within the trap that she’s nothing more than a terrified girl playing at being a hunter, and all Charlie can think to say is that she’s a LARPer so being accused of playing pretend isn’t exactly an insult, and she feels a burst of pride when she starts the exorcism and pinpoints the exact moment the demon realises she isn’t fucking around.

Of course, if it seems too easy, it probably is.

There’s another demon. Of course there’s another fucking demon, and it saunters into the warehouse and cracks the floor beneath the devil’s trap with a wave of its hand and advances towards Charlie slowly, with a sadistic glittering smile.

It’s a shame, Charlie thinks, because the girl the demon is wearing is actually kinda hot, and she’s going to hell for thinking that.

“Cute,” the demon says, flinging Charlie against the wall and sending the water pistols flying. (Under the contemptuous gaze of the demon, Charlie recognises that they’re probably a bit ridiculous – they’re tiny, bright orange plastic things that probably hold less than an average shot glass, but at least she tried.)

“You’re what they’re calling a hunter these days?” the demon asks, looking Charlie up and down.

“I’m sort of…part-time.”

“Don’t quit your day job. Oh – I forgot. You won’t get the chance.” The demon has her by the throat now and it’s impossible to breathe, and she won’t be able to say the exorcism – but there is one thing she _can_ say –

“ _CASTIEL!”_ she gasps. It’s like screaming underwater, or in a dream, and the demon cocks her head.

“Who’s Castiel?” she asks, and there’s a blast of light somewhere behind her and the demon wheels around, releasing Charlie.

The other demon – the one Charlie had in the devil’s trap – is lying, smoking, on the ground and Castiel is walking towards them, eyes like burning coal and Charlie can see the silhouette of his fucking _wings_ on the wall behind him.

“I’m Castiel,” he says coldly, looking the demon in the eye. “I’m an angel of the Lord and this woman is under my protection. Charlie, close your eyes.”

Charlie does, and there’s another blast of light and the demon drops under Castiel’s hand.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks, eyes sweeping over Charlie.

She nods hurriedly, manages a “Thanks for coming, Cas,” and Castiel nods, pulls her in for a hug. His grip is tighter, more crushing than it has been before, like Cas is unaware of his own strength.

“So you’re…uh…full-blown angel now, huh,” Charlie says awkwardly when he releases her, and she’s not sure how she should react to him now – reverence? awe? He’s an _angel_ who just saved her life, but Castiel seems to read her mind.

“I’m still the same,” he tells her. “And – yes. I can tell what you’re thinking. I’ll try not to abuse the power.”

At Castiel’s request, they go for a coffee (Castiel) and dinner (Charlie) at a nearby diner, and Charlie gets the feeling there’s something Castiel wants to talk about but she has no idea how to broach the subject and he seems perfectly happy just chatting. It’s a bit surreal, catching up with her angel roommate after his return to Heaven.

“I’ve been given a garrison to command,” he says. “The largest. They’re stationed on Earth.”

“What kind of orders do you give them?”

“To protect humanity. Our original purpose. They are here to answer the prayers of all mankind. There are no wars for Heaven to fight right now. Hell is fighting a civil war amongst themselves, they have no time to spare for war with us. We serve man through Heaven.” Castiel smiles contentedly, sips at his coffee. “It is well.”

“So you’re happy, then?” Charlie presses.

“Of course.”

“Cas.”

“It is well,” he repeats.

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I feel empty,” Castiel says eventually. “I have found my purpose again, but I’ve lost Dean. The garrison I fought beside for thousands of years is dead, and the brothers and sisters I command are unknown to me. Naomi searched for me, but I still resent her for what she did.”

“You’re lonely,” Charlie summarises.

Castiel smiles ruefully. “Yes, that’s a good summary.”

“I got that cat,” Charlie says eventually. “His name is Crookshanks.”

“You’re lonely too.”

“Well, yeah,” Charlie shrugs. “You and Dean were the best friends I’ve ever had, and Dean doesn’t remember me and you’re – ” she waves her hand vaguely – “So I know where you’re coming from.”

“What do you do about it?”

“Adopt a cat and spend a lot of time arguing with people on the internet.”

“That doesn’t sound like it would work.”

“It doesn’t.” Charlie sighs. “Come home, Cas.”

Castiel hesitates, but to Charlie’s surprise he nods. “I’m stationed on Earth now. There’s no reason why I couldn’t, theoretically, live with you again.”

“Seriously?”

“You wouldn’t see me very often.”

“Better than not seeing you at all. What about Dean?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I can maintain the pretence of being human.”

“Yeah, you do seem different.”

“You only knew me as a man. I am now a celestial being of unfathomable power contained within an earthly vessel. I should seem different.”

“So…” Charlie trails off. “Saw your wings earlier.”

“You saw two of them. I have six.”

“What _is_ your true form?”

“Very big and very intimidating. It would also burn your eyes out. I have no desire to do that.”

“Right. Yeah.”

“I left my garrison in a hurry when you prayed to me,” Castiel says, standing abruptly. “I need to return to them. I’ll be home by the time you drive back there.”


	16. Chapter 16

Castiel, like he promised, is waiting for Charlie when she finally arrives home. It’s dawn, the sun slowly peeking over the horizon, and Charlie has never felt more exhausted in her life having driven through the night.

Castiel, damn him, is looking perfectly alert and cheerful. “Hello, Charlie.”

“How was your garrison?”

“Busy. A new prophet has been created, and we must guard her.”

“What happened to Kevin?” Charlie asks, worried. “He’s still—”

“Alive, yes. He has been relieved of his responsibilities.”

“How’d that happen?”

“We took it from him,” Castiel says matter-of-factly. “He is happier without it. He has done his job well.”

“So he’s just a normal kid now?”

“Yes. He is at college. Crowley is watching over him.”

“ _Crowley_? On guardian angel duty?”

“I was also surprised.”

“Are you going to see Dean?”

“No.”

“ _Cas_. You upped and left without even a goodbye. The least you can do is tell him you’re back.”

“Dean needs me to stay. I can’t. He’s happier without me in his life and I’ve let him down too much already.”

“He doesn’t even _remember_ that. Cas, look me in the eye and _tell_ me you want to cut him out of your life.”

Castiel does look her in the eye, but only for a splitsecond before he abruptly disappears. Charlie huffs in annoyance as the wind from his wings washes over her. Of course, now he’s got said wings back he’s going to use them to escape conversations he doesn’t want to have.

“ _Castiel!_ ” she bellows, hoping he gets the full blast of her voice over angel radio or whatever the fuck he hears prayers on. “You can’t hide forever!”

He can. He absolutely can.

“Can you _not_ hide forever?”

Silence.

“This is not what friends do!”

More silence.

“I still have your tea!”

Castiel, damn him, ripples down almost immediately.

“Really? You come back for _tea_?”

“I enjoy the taste,” he says simply, walking past her into the kitchen. “Also I assumed that if you’re offering tea, you’re not angry at me.”

“I’m not angry, just disappointed.”

Miraculously, it seems to work. Castiel sighs audibly, pottering around the kitchen to brew his tea and talking to the window. “I thought that with Dean’s memories gone, perhaps it would be a fresh start. Perhaps I could finally be who he needs me to be. He doesn’t remember me letting him down. Lying to him. Hiding from him. That was a blessing. But _I_ am no blessing to him.”

“You’re an _angel_.”

“I’m a corruption.”

“Bullshit. You fucked up. Everyone’s fucked up somehow. The important thing is, you fucked up trying to save the world from the second apocalypse, and you did, right? You beat Raphael…sure you let out a bunch of Leviathans in the process but we stopped that before it got too out of hand, so all’s well that ends well…don’t look at me like that, Cas. I know it sounds stupid but this world’s still here because of you, and Sam, and Dean. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough to earn a reward instead of a punishment?”

“I don’t deserve—”

“Cas, _goddammit_ , shit happens. Shit happens all the time and it’s nobody’s fault and you were never _made_ to carry the world on your shoulders, okay? Neither was Sam and neither was Dean, but the world didn’t get that memo and you did the best you could.”

“The weight of the world is a terrible burden.”

“Not yours to bear.” Charlie feels this is a salient point.

“Do you have my phone?”

“Um, yeah, somewhere.” Charlie shuffles through a few stacks of paper, finding it and handing it to Castiel. “What do you need it for?”

“I’m going to call Dean.”


End file.
